


each according to their kind

by Nomette



Series: l'impératrice directeur [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Fluff, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Institute! Danse, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2018-08-30 06:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8522938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomette/pseuds/Nomette
Summary: Preston smiled, then tipped his hat to Danse. He had a wide, genuine smile, like he was actually pleased to be in Danse’s presence. Only a minuteman, Danse thought, and brushed the thought away. It was the sort of thing a member of the Brotherhood of Steel would think. The Institute knew better. The Institute had patched Danse together from such weak materials and made him strong, a tower to protect what was important. Who knew what they could make out of a single minuteman with a kind smile?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suburbanomad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suburbanomad/gifts).



Danse didn’t register that he was being spoken to at first; he’d thought the little minuteman was speaking to himself. But he was looking at Danse, trying to make eye contact with the outside of Danse’s power armor. It was strange, being addressed in person: he'd grown accustomed to the little lines of text on his screen. The “chat room” interface had come installed in his new suit, but Danse didn’t really need it. He could type at a thought now, a side effect of the wiring now crammed in his skull, keeping him alive. Though he rarely had anything to report, he liked seeing the endless scrolling text, the coursers reporting threats, the little status updates. It was lonely, patrolling the walls in his power armor, watching the settlers bustle about in the courtyard. Sometimes he thought his ruined throat was only an excuse not to talk to people, and sometimes he was glad of it.

Sometimes he missed being in the Brotherhood. He wasn’t supposed to. They’d shot him and left him to bleed out on the floor of the recon bunker, but he missed them anyway. Missed scribe Haylen. Missed being part of a group. Still. Davi had rescued him, had set his head right, and Curie had stitched him back together. If this was the life they wanted for him, it was the life he would have.

The human speaking to him was tall, as wastelanders went, with a nice hat, dark skin, and a minutemen uniform. He didn’t seem bothered by the inorganic jut of Danse’s black power armor, or the acid smoking from the surface.

 “Great job with that mirelurk queen, big guy,” he said, smiling. “If you want a beer, there's drinks down in the armory. We're almost out, but hey, I figure this is a special occasion.” Danse stared blankly, then nodded.

 _What’s the name of the minutemen general?_ He asked in the group chat, interrupting an argument between Ace and X6 about the best way to secure a perimeter.

 _Preston Garvey_ , X6 wrote.

 _He’s not injured, is he? O_O_ Curie had adopted the habit of using a combination of letters and number to express her emotions. Danse squinted at the face, trying to figure out what it was conveying.

 _He’s fine. I just wanted to know his name._ He turned his attention away from the screen and to Preston.

“Can I ask for your name, big guy?” Preston asked. Danse stared. He hadn’t spoken out loud since first waking up; he wasn’t sure if he could. The bullet had taken out a large chunk of his throat along with his jaw.

“Tall, quiet type, huh?” Preston said, smiling. “Well, let me know if you want a beer.” Danse nodded, the movement making his helmet squeak, and then he tried to speak. His voice came out husky, unused.

“My throat…” he said, his voice trailing off into a rasp. “Damaged.”

“Oh, okay. Sorry to bother you then, big guy.” Preston smiled, then tipped his hat to Danse. He had a wide, genuine smile, like he was actually pleased to be in Danse’s presence. Only a minuteman, he thought, and brushed the thought away. It was the sort of thing a member of the Brotherhood of Steel would think. The Institute knew better. The Institute had patched Danse together from such weak materials and made him strong, a tower to protect what was important. Who knew what they could make out of a single minuteman with a kind smile?

 

The second time they spoke, Danse was at the end of a long shift, tired and ready to scrub himself down. He’d come out of his power armor and snuck to the kitchen, not expecting anyone to be up. It was very, very late, and they’d repelled a concerted push from raiders, making everyone just as tired as he was.

As Danse was leaving, Preston came in, his head hatless, his coat splattered in blood.

“Sorry. Are you new?” Preston asked, studying him. The shot had also left Danse with a steel inlay in his jaw; he resisted the urge to touch it now. He wasn’t ashamed, exactly- he was what he was- but he knew that he looked strange. More inhuman than the average synth. Preston didn’t seem to care- perhaps he hadn’t noticed?

“I’m sorry,” Preston said. “I would have shown you around, but it’s been hell lately.”

“Armor,” Danse managed. Preston’s expression brightened.

“Oh! Sorry I didn’t recognize you.”

It’s not a problem, Danse wanted to say.  He managed a smile.

“I know,” he said. Preston laughed in response.

“You should come out of your armor more, big guy. Do you have a name?”

“Danse.” Paladin Danse, his mind whispered, unbidden. No. “M7-97.”

“Curie calls me P1-43 sometimes,” Preston says. “I think she thinks it’s a cute nickname.” Danse smiles; it is the sort of thing that Curie would do. He’s not sure what to say. In his head, he reaches for the chatroom, but there’s nothing.

“Good night,” he says.

“Good night,” Preston says.

 

Curie is busy. Curie is always busy. Still, there's no one else to ask. Danse doesn't want to bother the director. Finally, he gets up the courage to open a private chat and send her a message.

 _Curie, I have a request for you. Is there any way you could fix my throat? I think it would be useful to be able to talk to people._ No response. Perhaps Curie is asleep right now, or away from her headset. Danse bites down the cold rush of disappointment and shame. He doesn't deserve so much of the Institute's resources. He feels ashamed for asking. A ping, and Curie’s response appears.

 _: u! Of course! I don’t have time until next week. Is next Thursday okay? I had no idea you were still having trouble with your voice._ Danse has to take a moment to gather his thoughts; once again, he’s mistaken one of his faults for part of the design.

 _I can’t really talk,_ he sends at last.

 _!!!! : O Well, we’ll fix that! >: (. _ The face is so very Curie; it puts him mind of her little scowl when another patient’s pulled out their stitches too early. He smiles dimly at the screen.

_I’d like that._

 

The operation takes place on a Thursday, down in the cold halls of the Institute. He finds the silver and chrome comforting, the cold nipping at his exposed skin as he lies down on the operating table. It reminds him that he’s one piece in a whole machine, important and replaceable all at once. It reminds him of the Prydwen.

He enjoys the week it takes him to recover, shuffling through the white halls, admiring the water flowing beneath the glass steps, helping the coursers classify weapons. Curie radios him once a day to talk about news at the Castle; how the shops are doing, how repairs are progressing, the debate over the merchant tax rate. He doesn’t have much to say, but Curie has a gift for drawing words from people.

Finally, his week’s up, and he’s back in his armor and back to the surface. He returns to the Castle on a rainy Thursday. Preston is in the old office, pouring over papers with the director.

“Throat healed up?” the director asks. Danse straightens up, pinned under her cold gaze. The director is slim, hollowed out by illness, with skin so white it’s almost chalky. There are rumors; that she’s immortal, that she has a stable of clones, that she crawled from the grave like a curse to destroy the Institute, to remake it in her own image.

“Yes,” Danse says. This woman killed Elder Maxson, switched him with a synth and executed him in front of the whole Institute. He’d known Arthur as a child, hadn’t been properly afraid of him. Hadn’t thought that Maxson would ever turn on him, hadn't thought he’d ever have a reason to. He’d been left to die, and the director had remade him. That was what she did.

“Good,” she says absently, still looking over her papers.

“Congratulations,” Preston echoes. He’s gotten a little headset from somewhere; Danse remembers vaguely that the director’s promoted him to sub-director.

“Thank you,” he says awkwardly. The director looks up at him, finally, a rare smile on her face.

“You should go thank Curie. She worries about you, you know.” Danse nods, accepting the implicit dismissal, and leaves. Curie isn’t in the Castle. She’s gone out to help someone at a settlement; Danse sighs and mopes in the courtyard until one Minuteman, braver or more tired than the rest, asks him to help carry a barrel of water.

 

Two hours later, Preston finds Danse surrounded by a cluster of Minutemen, all of them contemplating the smoking knee joint of Danse’s power armor.

“He tried to bring the whole generator up,” one of the minutemen says. “Got it out of the water, at least.” Danse can’t get that leg of the power armor to move. He’s been hoping, stupidly, that the crowd will disperse and he’ll be able to bring his miserable power armor back to the stage for repairs by himself, but he sees clearly now that it will be impossible.

One last breath to calm himself, and he exits the power armor to feel daylight on his skin for the first time in weeks. Preston grins at him.

“You’re tall even out of the armor. That’s not fair.”  

Danse flushes, not sure what to say. He feels naked in his synth uniform, despite the fact that he’s covered from neck to wrist. None of the Minutemen seem to care about his face, at least.

“I can repair the armor if we can just get it to the power armor station,” he says.”I’m sorry about the breakdown.”

“Nonsense,” one of the minutemen says, smacking him on the arm. It’s an old woman, Ronnie something. “You saved us a day of hauling barrels. We shouldn't have asked you to move the generator too.”

X6 and Curie have joined the crowd. They press forward, the crowd parting in hushed whispers in front of X6. Danse also feels a stir of fear in his chest. A courser. The fist of the Institute, murder made flesh.

“What’s the problem?” X6 asks. Danse explains, glad of all the years of practice delivering reports.

“I’ll take the left,” X6 says, and he and Curie go to the armor. Curie is absurdly sweet and small in her white coat, the light that follows X6’s darkness. She counts to three, and the two of them lift the power armor and carry it between them like a fallen comrade. Their steps are quick and light, and in no time at all the power armor is deposited safely at the power armor station.

“Thank you,” Danse says, and Curie grins at him.

“It was no trouble at all! I am glad to see you up and about, Monsieur Danse.”

“Thanks to you,” he says, and Curie smiles.

“It is my job.” He thinks that she may be about to say something else, but X6 cuts in.

“Do you know how to repair this suit?”

“Yes,” Danse says.

“The director wants someone to teach rudimentary engineering skills to volunteers. What’s your schedule?”

“X6!” Curie protests.

 

In the end, Danse is volunteered to teach three workshops on rudimentary engineering.

His suit remains busted; he starts to repair it, decides he will fix it with the first group, then wanders off, dazed. He’s not sure how to teach.

He wanders up to his usual patrol route, and finds Preston weeding some tatos on top of the Castle. Does the man ever stop working? He stops, curious, and Preston glances up and blinks, faintly surprised, then smiles.

“Getting some sunlight?”

“Yeah,” Danse says, and kneels awkwardly in the dirt next to Preston. Now that he he can speak, he’s not sure what to say. “Do you need help?”

“These tatos sure do.” Preston shows Danse how to weed, his hands working efficiently in the soil. Danse feels vaguely guilty, like he should know how to do this. Whoever made him in imitation of a human being didn’t see fit to program it in.

“Are you a courser, like X6?” Preston asks.

“No, I’m just a normal synth.”

“Really? You seem like you never sleep. I see you on the patrol rosters all the time.” Danse has insomnia, and sometimes at night his head throbs with phantom pain, his thoughts scrambling in on each other until he’s not sure who he is.

“I see you up all the time too,” Danse says, because he does. Preston is always in the study, or on the wall, or greeting a caravan, or overseeing a new shipment.

“You got me there,” Preston says.

“You should rest,” Danse says, surprised by his own concern. “That is… the work that you do… you should be rested for it.” Preston laughs.

“You sound like Curie,” he says, shaking his head. “Everytime I see her, it’s ‘Preston, I have a vitamin for you. Preston, you need to rest. Preston, have you eaten?’ I think she really wants to fuss over X6, but she's using me as cover so it's not obvious.”

“She argues with X6 a lot in the group chat,” Danse admits. Preston laughs. Danse isn't sure why. No one's laughed at anything Danse said in ages. A warm flush of embarrassed pleasure lights up his face, and he knows he's turning red.

“Is that who Curie’s always talking to?” Preston continues, oblivious to Danse’s embarrassment, or maybe just kindly ignoring it. “Davi gave me one, but it doesn't go with my hat, so I never wear it. It’s not like I ever leave the Castle, anyway.”

“Do you know the director?” Danse asks, curious. He knows what the director’s name is, but he's never heard anyone but Curie call her that. Preston grins.

“I thought everyone had heard this story by now,” he says. “It was a few days after the Gunner attack on Quincy…”

“The director saved you, too,” Danse says at the end. Preston gives him a look of surprise. “I was… with the Brotherhood…”

“No worries, big guy. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.” Danse doesn't want to, but he can't think of anything else to say. It's warm out in the sunlight, and Preston is close to him, too close, and this is the longest conversation he's had in months.

“Thank you,” he manages. “It was nice talking to you. I like your hat.”

“Thanks,” Preston says, looking confused. Danse flees before he can say anything else.

It's a little while before Danse sees Preston again, time enough for him to rationalize away the butterflies in his stomach. He practices speaking with Curie, who has the gift of making anyone feel at home, and with X6, which is only slightly different from talking to a wall. X6 has two passions: Curie, and Institute security, and can't be bothered with anything else. Still, Danse also helps set up the patrols, and it feels good to bend his head over a table and talk, to do real work again.

 

He runs into Preston on his way back from a late night patrol, and all his carefully cultivated words scatter in the wind.

“Nice day for a night,” he offers lamely. Preston tips his hat and Danse feels his face grow hot again, the world suddenly warm and sharp and centered on this gently smiling cowboy. Fuck. He's got a crush.

“Hungry?” Preston asks, and Danse remembers that he was walking to the kitchen.

“You bet,” he manages. “I'm glad to see these mirelurks contributing for a change.” Preston laughs again.

“That’s one way to look at it. Come on, let's go take stock of the contributions.” There's a frozen mirelurk claw in the fridge: Preston sets Danse to cracking it and starts working on some soup. “We can make a whole pot, in case anyone else wants some. These mirelurks don't really come in individual sizes, anyway.”

Danse isn't X6, but he's rather strong as 3rd Gen synths go. He manages to break a claw open with a hammer, then rip off the crust. Preston whistles through his teeth.

“Damn. Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

“I don't think you could,” Danse replies. For some reason, this makes Preston’s eyebrows go up. They work together in the dim lights of the Castle, chatting about the food they grew up with, the right way to chop carrots, the best tasting kind of mirelurk.

“The eggs are the most useful,” Danse insists. “They have protein.”

“Yeah, but the hatchlings are the perfect size to share. I guess a big guy like you could probably eat one on his own, huh?”

“I've never tried,” Danse admits. In the Brotherhood, they mostly ate brahmin jerky and noodles and pre-war junk. Things they could ship to the Commonwealth. There was a list, and if you ate stuff that wasn't on it you were endangering yourself.

“Never tried?” Preston’s eyebrows go up again. “Well, I can't stand for that. Meet me after a patrol sometime and we'll try one. Didn't you bring in a big haul just the other day?” In his power armor Danse is the strongest person in the castle, which means that he often gets enlisted to pull heavy things. The last haul had been a mirelurk queen, and ten other people had helped him pull her.

“I did,” Danse concedes. The soup threatens to boil over just then, and talk stops while the two of them hustle to get it calmed down.

“Whoof,” Preston announces at last. All done. Danse is starving.

“Excellent. This looks very nutritive.” Preston laughs. “What?” Danse says, staring at him.

“I’ve never heard anyone get so excited about something being ‘nutritive’ before,” he says.

“It is,” Danse says defensively. Preston grins at him.

“Don’t worry about it, big guy,” he says, and claps a hand on Danse’s shoulder. “Let’s eat.”

 

Danse’s crush appears to be terminal. Fasting, working, going back to the Institute, reminding himself that he doesn’t have a chance- none of it works. It doesn’t help that Preston is ever-present around the Castle, digging tatos and talking to merchants and generally being kind and helpful. Danse’s only consolation is that Preston doesn’t seem to have noticed the crush; he carries on with the same cheer as always. Danse resigns himself to living in suffering.

Life goes on. They add another settlement; a boathouse in the north, conveniently located on the river. Danse gets the Minutemen’s first set of boats going, and Preston helps launch them into the water. A ragged cheer goes up from the shore when the boats launch, but all Danse can think about is Preston. Preston, who has taken his shirt off but left his hat on, and is grinning and slightly wet. Preston, who proposes a toast to Danse that night, for building the boats, and smiles at the ragged cheer that goes up.

Fuck, Danse has got it bad.  

He and Preston are up on the Castle Heights drinking beer and speculating about whether you can ride a molerat when Danse gets a little ping in his visor: a PM from Curie.

“Hello!” the message begins. “I was wondering if you knew what Preston wants for his birthday?”

“No idea,” Danse sends back. Preston glances over at him and Danse taps the transmitter perched on the side of his head. Work? Preston mouths. Danse shakes his head.

“Why are you asking me?” he sends, a little annoyed with himself for not knowing Preston’s birthday.

“I thought you would know, since you are his boyfriend,” Curie sends. Danse chokes on his beer. Next to him Preston raises an eyebrow.

“I am NOT,” Danse sends.

“Oh! My apologies! I thought, since you spend so much time together…”

“One might as well say that X6 is your boyfriend,” Danse sends crossly. He may not be human, but he has a lot more experience with human customs than Curie does.

“He is,” Curie writes. Danse squints at his visor, then turns it off.

“Did you know Curie and X6 were dating?” Preston looks faintly confused, then thoughtful.

“You know… I didn’t. Didn’t think X6 liked that kind of thing, but I guess it explains why he’s always hovering. The first few weeks Curie was in the Castle, he followed her around like he was planning to take the hands off anyone that touched her. Glad he’s come around some.” Danse has not experienced X6 ‘coming around some’, but X6 hasn’t known him as long as he’s known Preston. Besides, Danse is a former member of the Brotherhood of Steel, and if there’s anyone able to read Danse’s rare disloyal thoughts out of his head, it’s X6. Preston must sense Danse’s discomfort, because he puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey man, don’t sweat it. He’ll come around. He’s just protective, that’s all.” Danse looks at Preston’s earnest face and doesn’t know what to say, how to reply to this unexpected, electric kindness. He’s taken bullets with less effect than Preston’s hand on his shoulder. It sneaks up on him, sometimes, this companionship, this kindness, more than he ever thought he deserved or dreamed.

“You okay there?” Preston asks.

“I got distracted,” Danse says, because he can’t say the other thing. He’s not a poet; he doesn’t know how to explain the feeling Preston gives him in a way that will make sense. Preston isn’t a sunrise, or a bird in the sky or a flower. He’s more than that. He’s a warm blanket after a long cold night, a toast with companions, a ramp when you’re too tired to take the stairs.

“Share the joke?” Preston says. I’m the joke, Danse thinks sourly. I can’t think of anything better to compare you to than a ramp.

“Sorry,” he says, tapping the visor.

“Sure,” Preston says with a little shrug. He turns away from Danse slightly, humming under his breath and staring over the harbor. A little boat is puffing across the water, crewed by a single intrepid explorer and a set of Davi’s synths. A slight wind is blowing up from the ocean, stirring Preston’s lapels, and in the distance the sun is sinking towards the horizon, turning the water pink and gold. Danse is struck with the sudden desperate desire to bring a gift to Preston, to make him smile, to make him _know._

 

Danse is sulking about the kitchen sleeplessly when the darkness of the outside night unspool itself and intrudes, instantaneous and unbidden, between Danse and the light. He glances upwards and finds X6 three inches from his face. He throws a punch before his mind registers the person in his space; X6 evades with such speed that he barely appears to move.

“May I help you?” Danse says, drawing on years of combat training to prevent his voice from wavering. This close, Danse can feel the heat emanating from X6, as though the courser is powered by some infernal machine. Images flash through his head; Brotherhood of Steel members pulled apart like toys, Gunner encampments laid bare, settlements ransacked. Behind it all, a whisper of black, a rumor that a courser had been seen.

X6 doesn’t say anything. He just reaches up and slowly, deliberately, turns Danse’s visor back on. A stream of messages from Curie fills Danse’s vision.

“Uh,” Danse manages. X6 turns on his heel and disappears into the night. Even on the hard stone of the castle floors, his footsteps are soundless. Danse allows himself a single inhale and exhale to calm his nerves, then reaches up and begins scrolling through his messages.

“Have I transgressed some boundary? I am never sure with these things.” Curie writes.

“Why is your headset turned off? Are you angry?”

“The dictionary has confirmed that my definition of ‘dating’ was in fact correct.”

“I still need to know what to get Preston.”

“Davi has authorized synths to date. Please see the attached memo.” There are more messages, but Danse doesn’t want to continue. He sends off a quick message to Curie, guilt sitting uncomfortably in his stomach.

“I forgot to turn my headset back on,” he writes. “I apologize for being so careless and remaining out of contact for so long.” There’s a long pause. Danse feels silly. Curie is probably engaged in doing something productive instead of sulking. He goes back to his bed, resolutely resisting the urge to look for X6 in every shadow, and lies down. It doesn’t help. He feels unprotected, exposed.

The flash of his visor receiving a new message makes him jump.

“That is good to know. : ) “ Curie writes. “I merely wanted to get your input, as it is far more interesting than my current lab work. -_-.” Are those dashes morse code? Danse squints at the mysterious message, but no clarification is forthcoming.

“I see,” he writes. It is technically true.

“To return to the original subject, what does Preston like?” Danse starts to compose a list, stops, second guesses himself, and asks Curie to give him a little more time. It’s surprisingly difficult. There’s a lot of things that Preston wants for the Castle, but very little that he wants for himself. If given an item, he’d probably share it out.

“Preston likes beer, dapper shirts and laser musket modifications,” Danse writes at last. “Improvements to the Castle are more likely to please him than anything else, because he sees it as his home.” The visor blinks. Message sent. Danse falls asleep waiting for a reply, but in the morning there’s a message from Curie.

“I have an idea!” she writes.

 

The mission Curie lays out is simple; Danse needs to go to the Shamrock Taphouse, retrieve the beer producing robot, and smuggle it into the Castle. The only complication is that Preston’s birthday is in three days; Danse will need to leave immediately. He suits up, grabs a laser weapon from the Castle workbench, loads himself with ammo and supplies, and sets out.

A message from X6 flashes across his screen as he leaves.

“Curie has informed me that you are taking personal leave to retrieve an item that will raise local morale. I have approved this request for time off, as it is the first you have submitted, on Curie’s prompting. If it appears that the mission will take longer than the allotted three days, radio back.”

“Noted,” Danse sends back. He wants to send a follow-up message asking X6 what the hell he was doing the night before, but decides against it. No matter where you go, superior officers are all the same. Danse sighs and turns his attention to the path upwards. It’s relatively quiet. He feels a little unprepared going out into the Commonwealth without a squad at his back, but it would be too much to ask for someone to come along.

It’s raining. The whole Commonwealth is hushed, blanketed in the sound of a hundred drops striking pavement all at once. Danse is warm in his power armor, accompanied by the soft strains of the minutemen radio. He advances quickly, striding over the empty ground, the first journey he’s taken for himself since leaving the Brotherhood of Steel. In the Brotherhood, he’d patrolled along set routes, always aware that he was in the heart of enemy territory, that there was nowhere safe to put his back to. Davi doesn’t create paths. Davi controls territory. Her synths clear entire blocks brick by brick, house by house, until the ground is bare and flat, devoid of any place for anything to hide. On a clear day, you can see from the Castle straight across the bare ground of Davi’s kingdom, right up to the edge of Boston itself.

The Shamrock Taphouse is outside Davi’s reach, if barely, and infested by a pack of raiders; ugly, fleabitten, rabid things. They know the end is near. The raiders are scavengers; they cannot steal food from synths or hide in empty space. Davi is remaking the world into a space without them in it. Danse disposes of them with his laser gatling, feeling vaguely guilty about using another fusion core. He tries not to think of Arthur, tries not to see his reflection in the puddles of water: a dark, shapeless form, carved by careless things. A stone hewn in the depth of the Institute, and brought unhappily to the surface. No wonder the raiders are afraid.

He tries not think about himself, or the monster he’s always been. He thinks about Preston. The way Preston tips his hat, the way Preston looks when he’s weeding in the garden, his lips pressed intently together. The way Preston laughs at the things Danse says, as if Danse were funny and amusing instead of tongue-tied and dull. The way Preston looks when he tilts his head back to finish the last of his beer, and the way he sleeps, curled up, always aware of where his gun is.

Danse is not a person who was made for charm, or love, or even words, but he thinks Preston might not mind. He thinks that Preston might be the best person he’s ever met, thinks that he wants to make Preston laugh. Thinks that it might be a noble goal to do so, might be the best thing he’s managed thus far.

He finds Drinking Buddy in the basement and escorts him back. It’s not too far. He thinks of Preston the whole way back, thinks of Davi and Curie and X6, thinks of what it’s like to have a squad, and what’s it’s like to be alone. He wonders if he’s brave. He thinks he used to be, back when he was in the Brotherhood, before he discovered this hole in himself.

He thinks he’d like to be brave again.

The little dial at the bottom of his screen says it’s almost noon, but the sun still hasn’t made it through the clouds. Preston is waiting at the Castle, his hat turned up against the rain, his coat covered with a second coat. Danse smiles, and it pulls at the scar tissue on his face, but no one can see.

  
  


“Hey man,” Preston says when he comes in. “You vanished, and then Curie was all secretive about where you went. Don’t scare me like that.”

“Sorry,” Danse manages. “Happy Birthday.” Preston tilts his head.

“I didn’t think anyone remembered that,” he says, sounding faintly surprised. Danse feels something bubbly filtering into his blood, something heady and rare.

“I got you a present,” he says, and feels an abyss opening beneath his feet. “I like you, so I wanted to get you something for your birthday.” Preston looks up at him, his expression gently puzzled, and Danse realizes with a jolt that he’s still in his armor.  He jams down the escape button and exits on wobbly legs. It’s still raining lightly. Drinking Buddy is trailing behind him and Preston, Preston is looking at him. Danse isn’t sure what to say. A million words threaten to burst from his mouth.  

“Hey, uh, thanks,” Preston says. “I do like beer. But, uh--”

“Hey there pal,” Drinking Buddy interrupts. “Would you like a cold one?”

“It’s a robot,” Danse blurts out. Preston looks at it, then back at Danse.

“It makes beer,” Danse says.  

“I rescued it from some raiders.”

“It’s, uh, called Drinking Buddy.” It’s drizzling. Rain drips down the back of Danse’s neck.

“I thought you would like it.” Preston doesn’t say anything.  Danse wants to die. Preston is staring up at him with that same soft, puzzled expression. He steps closer, peering upwards into Danse’s face.

“It looks great,” he says, and smiles, pleased and a little shy. “But go back to the part where you liked me?”

“You’re my favorite person,” Danse manages. His stomach is fizzing. His face feels like it should be luminous, like a single large blush. “I’ve been really alone since I left the Brotherhood. You were the first person to really talk to me. If you don’t… if you don’t feel the same way, that’s fine. I know I’m not the best at dealing with people.”

“No,” Preston says. “I mean, yes! Not that you’re bad at dealing with people, yes to your question. If you’re asking me out. Are you asking me out?”

“Yes?” Danse says.

“Sure,” Preston says. They stare at each other for a bit, and then a peal of thunder startles them into remembering the rain. Danse hastily climbs into his armor and hurries back into the Castle, Preston scrambling ahead of him. Once inside, Danse docks his power armor in the storage room out of old habit, then hangs up his helmet and kneepads. Preston is waiting by the door.

“So, uh,” Preston says. He’s grinning. “It’s not the best weather for a date…”

“No, it’s not,” Danse agrees. He’s smiling too. Drinking Buddy comes clunking through the door.

“Hey there pal,” it says. “Would you like a cold one?” Preston snorts and then breaks down in laughter, and then Danse is laughing too. The two of them are grinning stupidly at each other, Preston trying and failing to stop his guffaws. They move closer. Preston’s hat brushes against Danse’s chest. Danse leans down, heart thumping, and kisses him. It’s just a peck, really, a brief brush of lips, but it feels electric. Danse can’t stop smiling.

“It’s not much of a date, but we’ve got food in the kitchen,” Preston says. “We could share that mirelurk.” It’s not much, maybe. Only a meal for two, a smile, a hand on his arm, but it’s more than Danse has had in years. Maybe the most he’s ever had.

“It would be my honor,” Danse replies.


	2. Chapter 2

Preston wakes to the sound of the loudspeakers calling out the shift change, and knows all is well. In the days and nights after Quincy, he could barely sleep, constantly startled into terrified awareness that something might attack at any time. But the castle is safe.The coursers will be leaving their posts now, surrendering their nightly vigil to the humans who serve as daytime guards. Darkness is the courser’s favored environment: in it, their eye reflect light like animals, unbothered by the mantle of black that leaves humans stumbling and blind. They love the silence and peace of the night watch, the steady hum of the machines, the sleeping heartbeat of the castle. X6 told Preston once in an uncharacteristic moment of candor that he loves the castle best at night, when the lights of Davi's generator shine over the water, turning everything to black and white.

Preston doesn't particularly like the institute, but he's grateful for the steady protection that the coursers provide. It takes all kinds. Some of the minutemen don't like them, but Preston tries to cut down on that kind of talk. So what if they're machine made? They're still people. Anyone who spent ten minutes with X6 and Curie could see that he loves her in his own way. 

Next to Preston, Danse stirs, as if Preston’s thoughts about synths have stirred him to life. He turns sleepily towards Preston, his eyelids fluttering, and brings a large hand up to touch Preston’s face.

“Mornin’,” Danse mutters. His arm is hooked around Preston’s shoulders, a warm, comfortable weight. He’s like a private heater, Preston’s own personal safeguard against the cold. It makes it awful hard to get up. 

“Good morning,” Preston says, and smiles when his boyfriend kisses him clumsily on the forehead. “When did you get in last night?”

“Late,” Danse says. “I was so tired I didn't check.” A small light flickers on behind his eye socket as he accesses the internal network the synths use to communicate. Some people find it unnatural, but Preston thinks it’s pretty cool. Davi’s found a way to make sure her people are never alone. 

“Looks like we got in a bit after 1,” Danse says, and yawns widely. 

“Go back to sleep, man,” Preston tells him fondly. “We'll call you if we need you. Okay?”

Danse gives a little acquiescent nod, which must mean that he's very tired indeed. He nestles back into the covers, and Preston spares a moment to smile at him before forcing himself out of the warm bed. Even Davi's technological marvels can only do so much against the brutal slog of the commonwealth winter, and it's always cold in the castle these days. But Preston’s lived through much, much colder. He remembers sleeping huddled in doorways and waking with his rifle half frozen to his hand. 

He finishes up and heads to the kitchen. The halls are already filled with people- patrolmen headed up to the walls, traders to the their booths, farmers to the fields. Preston slips into the kitchen, where Mrs. Ramirez is already busy filling bowls with rice porridge and cups with atole. When Preston met her, she was huddled in a hut on the edge of the glowing sea, waiting to die. She’d lost her family to raiders and starvation, one by one, until it was only her and a single granddaughter, but the castle has given her an entire new family to feed. 

“Good morning, Director Preston!” she exclaims, and thrusts a bowl of rice porridge in his direction.  “The Empress got us some cinnamon, can you believe that? Bless her, she works too hard. If you see her, tell her I said to eat more. That girl is too skinny.”

“Of course, Mrs. Ramirez,” Preston says. There are little bits of tarberry floating in the arroz con leche, courtesy of the slog. The ghouls don’t like to venture beyond their little zone, but they’re happy to trade for the goods that stream to and from the castle. 

“Enjoy your meal, sir,” Senor Handy says, already pouring a serving for the next worker. 

Preston takes a seat at a booth with Mel and Sturges. Davi’s been having them teach engineering to a new generation of workers around the castle, but their first class will graduate soon, and then the two of them will retire for the year. Sturges is eager to go back to Sanctuary, and Mel to get away from his students. Out of the three main teachers, only Danse will remain at the castle. 

“Preston!” Sturges exclaims cheerfully. “No shadow today?”

“Danse? He’s sleeping. He and X6 were out late on some big haul.”

“Davi’s always sending people out with no explanation,” Mel mutters. He’s from Goodneighbor, and his time there left him twitchy and mistrustful.

“Wonder what she got this time?” Sturges says thoughtfully. Preston shrugs. Davi might have given him the title of subdirector, but he’s not sure of her broader plans. He doubts anyone is, except maybe Curie and by extension X6. He doesn’t mind. Davi’s methods can be excessively ruthless, but her goals are good.      

“Maybe she’s gotten us Christmas presents,” Preston speculates. 

“You know, I wouldn’t put it past her,” Sturges says, and laughs. 

 

At seven, they filter out to the yard for a rare address from the General herself. The people gather in the open half of the courtyard, across from the massive structure that Davi built into the castle. It’s a mass of slick white paint and towering box-like rooms scavenged from a local vault, built high into the sky and topped with a nuclear reactor potent enough to power the whole peninsula. 

There’s a flash of lightning, and three figures appear perched on the railing of the highest level. Davi is in the center, with X6 on her left and Curie on her right like angels of life and death. Preston’s never been one for spectacle, but sometimes a show of power can prevent a fight. People come to the castle skeptical of Davi’s project, but they leave convinced. A hush falls over the crowd as Davi’s launches into the air, her rocket boots sputtering. 

“Good morning, everyone,” she says, her voice caught and amplified by the radio tower. Even for Preston, who’s seen so much, it’s still unreal to see her standing there, hovering like an angel in the air. 

“This week, we celebrate the graduation of our first class of engineers. Soon, we will be able to bring clean water to all the commonwealth.” A cheer goes up from the little cluster of students. They will be staying a few weeks more in the castle before trickling back out to the major settlements. “To celebrate, beer will be available at half price this Friday from 6-9, and there will be a brief fireworks display.”

This gets an even louder cheer. Preston’s birthday present is wildly popular in the castle, and it brings in a considerable amount of money. Preston gives most of it to the castle, or to Danse’s scrap budget. 

There’s a flash of static, and then Curie’s voice comes over the microphone.

“In the winter, we must all be vigilant in preventing disease. If you are sick, please report to the sickbay as soon as you feel the symptoms. My assistants will be happy to help you.”

The microphone goes to X6. 

“Due to excessive snow, caravans will not be running to settlements smaller than 5 people. A courser has been dispatched to run the major routes. The raider gang operating out of Fergus Ironworks has been dispatched. Wood has been placed under rationing. Anyone caught stealing from the pile will be conscripted into the wood-gathering groups. No exceptions.”

Davi takes the microphone back. 

“There will be a Christmas festival running from the 15th to the 25th, and an ice skating rink has been set up outside the castle. Ice skates can be rented from the booth staffed by A3-21. All proceeds will go towards the settlement at Greygarden.

“Winter is upon us, but we are stronger than it. Look around you. In only a year, we have built so much together. Time is on our side. On this, the first day of December, I wish you a happy holiday season, with many more happy years to come.”  

Snow is beginning to fall. Davi raises her fist towards the sky in the Institute salute, and the people on the ground copy the gesture with a shout of approval. Preston raises his hand too, and smiles at the cheers. 

The gates open, and the day’s trading begins. There’s not as many people as there were during the warm summer months, but the line still stretches as far as the eye can see. The sick, the wounded, the wealthy; traders, couriers, minutemen: everyone comes to the castle sooner or later. Preston has an office at the minutemen headquarters, and no sooner has he sat down then five people are clamoring for his attention, wanting to know about housing allotments and wood and food and this and that. He gets to work. 

It’s past noon when Danse comes in, holding two bowls of mirelurk soup. Preston has finally chased off all the complainers and is trying to figure out how to distribute the beds in the new barracks. 

“You should eat,” Danse says. The soup does smell good. Preston takes the bowl and the two of them eat in silence, Danse occasionally peering over Preston’s shoulder at the barracks.

“Put them all in bunks,” he says finally. 

“We don’t have enough scrap metal,” Preston says tiredly. 

“You can use mine,” Danse says. “Classes are ending, so we’re not going to need it for demonstrations anymore.” The first part comes out gruff. 

“You gonna miss your students? They love you, you know.”

“Hmpf,” Danse says. A slight flush rises in his cheeks. “All I do is follow regulations. Sturges is a good teacher, but he’s disorganized. Mel…” Danse sighs, and doesn’t say anything else. Mel isn’t a terrible teacher, but he’s Goodneighbor through and through. He and Danse have been feuding from the moment they met.

“Your little ducklings,” Preston says, amused. “You going to the graduation party on Friday?”

“Of course,” Danse says gruffly. “You should come too. We can go ice skating.”

“I don’t know how to skate,” Preston says dubiously. 

“Neither do I,” says Danse. One of his rare smiles sneaks onto his face. Danse doesn’t smile much, but when he does- he has a way of looking at Preston like he’s never seen anything better. 

“Okay,” Preston says, smiling. “We can learn together.”

 

The week ticks on. Danse’s class of engineers sneak into his office when Preston isn’t looking and demand to know what Danse’s favorite color is. They’re putting together some kind of goodbye gift, and they don’t want him to know. Preston allows himself to be sworn to secrecy, and tells them that Danse likes royal blue. 

Curie adopts a small deathclaw. X6 quietly sneaks it out of the castle and then claims that it escaped. Danse gets a cold and tries to work through it, but Curie catches him and forced him to spend a day in bed. 

Friday rolls around, and Preston wakes up to find that Davi’s coursers have decorated the castle with Christmas lights. 

“To minimize hazardous working conditions at night,” X6 says when asked.

“Those look an awful lot like christmas lights,” Preston points out. 

“Hmpf,” X6 says, which isn’t a no. 

Preston and Danse get front row tickets to the awards ceremony. The graduates are invited up to the highest level of the Empress Tower, where Davi gives them a little certificate, and then down to the courtyard, where their friends and family proceed to get them very, very drunk. 

About halfway through the night, all of the graduates vanish and pop back out clutching an oversized hunk of metal that Preston recognizes vaguely as a power armor torso, and present it to Danse. 

There’s a terse silence, and then Danse comes out of his suit. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly, and then all the students crowd around and crush him in a hug. He’s still teary-eyed when they go over to the ice skating rink.

“I told you they like you,” Preston says cheerfully. 

“Hmpf. They got Mel and Sturges gifts as well,” Danse mutters. 

“Yeah, but yours was the best,” Preston teases. Danse flushes red. 

“It’s lopsided,” he mutters, but Preston can already tell that he’s going to wear it everywhere. He leans over and kisses Danse on the cheek, and Danse flushes terribly. His hands go up, then back down, like he’s not sure what to do with himself.

“It’s just a kiss, babe,” Preston says gently. Danse is less awkward in private, but there’s something about being in public that makes him mumbly and embarrassed. Preston doesn’t fault him for it, though he hopes that one day Danse will be able to take for granted that he is a person worthy of love. 

“It’s a kiss from you,” Danse mutters, and now he’s terribly red. He grabs Preston’s hand and stomps towards the ice skating booth, Preston laughing the whole way. 

In the end, Danse skates into the side of the rink twice, and Preston almost loses his hat, but it doesn’t matter. It’s a date, the first date either of them have had time for in weeks, and it’s a good one. The lights from the castle are reflected in the rink. People are laughing and throwing snowballs. Mrs. Ramirez has a steady supply of warm atole from the kitchen, and there’s enough wood to keep the castle warm. Danse captures Preston in a warm hug, and they stand there for a while, watching the lights in peaceful silence. 

Curie and X6 have taken to the rink with their usual grace, and are competing to see who can do the most ostentatious flip. The crowd is laughing and cheering them on, and a few other coursers are strapping on skates, determined not be outdone. 

“You’re always so warm,” Preston mumbles. 

“Good,” Danse says. “You need it.” He covers Preston’s hand with his oversized mitten. 

“My boyfriend, the blanket,” Preston teases. 

“My boyfriend, the hero,” Danse replies. 

“I’m not-”

“You are,” Danse says. “There’s not a person here who doesn’t know your name. You’re even more famous than Curie.” 

“Hmpf,” Preston says. “If you keep saying stuff like that I might have to kiss you.”

“Oh, no,” Danse says dryly. Preston leans forward until the brim of his hat taps against Danse’s forehead, relishing the way Danse’s expression goes soft and affectionate, then turns and skates away. 

“Hey,” Danse yells, and tries to skate after him. It’s the most inept chase scene ever, but it doesn’t matter. By the end, both of them are breathless with laughter. Preston stumbles to the side of the rink, and allows himself to be caught in a kiss, and for a moment, the world- rink, castle, spectators and all- fades away, and he’s just purely, completely content. 

“Happy Holidays,” he tells Danse. He catches sight of a blur at the edge of his vision and shifts, but Danse isn’t so lucky. The snowball explodes right on his left shoulder. He turns to glare at the students assembled on the shore, eyes narrowed. 

“Come on,” Preston says, laughing. “Let’s show them what we’re made of.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my mysterious girl, who does more to help others than anyone else I know. <3

**Author's Note:**

> \- Be the Preston Garvey you want to see in the world.


End file.
